


Universe in Ecstatic Motion

by crimsondust



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 19th century Paris, Canon Era, M/M, Romantic Adventures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 21:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8506504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsondust/pseuds/crimsondust
Summary: Jehan feels melancholy and restless because he longs to travel. Bahorel, may have the answer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estelraca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/gifts).



> Based on a prompt asking for Bahorel, Jehan and their Romantic antics. I hope you enjoy it.

Outside, the icy cold wind and a light drizzle was turning everything to mud and slush as Grantaire walked hurriedly, warming his hands, which despite the gloves, were cold. It had been an unusually cold winter, he thought. He knocked once and then waited, voices drifted from inside as the door opened.

'Do we have enough candles?’

‘What page of the book are the spells on?’

‘Do we have to arrange the books on the floor, this way, I’m trying to read, in case that may have slipped your mind, Courfeyrac.’

‘It hasn’t, Combeferre, but it just so happens that your thick textbooks are ideal for the purpose and it will only take a while.’

For Grantaire, this dialogue made little sense.

‘To what purpose?’ he asked gazing around him at the curious arrangement on the floor and at the din of voices raised and in discord with one another. At the centre of the chaos, stood Courfeyrac, grinning.

‘To have a friendly session with the spirits, my bewitching friend. Though I can see you already had one with them.’ Bossuet said, patting Grantaire on the back.

‘Your jokes are very transparent, Bossuet. Where is the ghostly oration, that you’re famous for?’ Courfeyrac smiled.

‘It is too cold to make speeches, I can only dig up old jokes,’ he threw a piece of crumpled paper at Courfeyrac.

‘Your bad humour will haunt me forever.’

‘Oh no,’ Grantaire made a long face. ‘Masked balls are more to my taste. One never knows who one is dancing with, a grisette or a Madame and often one can dance with both. Say, what you will about Bonaparte, but he did know how to throw fancy dress parties. Courfeyrac, you must accompany me to the ball next week so we can amuse ourselves horsing around. Ghosts on the other hand, bore me, what could you possibly want to know about them. And I should think they always look so sorrowful and bring with them a chill in the air which is bad for my constitution after a meal, Brouh! Perhaps I shall ask that lovely young grisette to dance with me next week after all. Music and dance, is the way of the world. Ghosts are no good, they ask you to avenge them, and when you finally make up your mind to kill your father’s murderer, you get stabbed by a poisonous sword for your troubles. I've often found myself lighter in pocket when talking to fortune tellers and none the wiser about my fortunes or about my dead relatives’ wishes.’ Grantaire said as he sat down.  

‘Perhaps we should bar the windows and doors first, in case of a chill?’ Joly began.  

Lesgles put his arm around Joly, ‘You will not catch cold. Between us, I think we can scare the ghosts away.’

Courfeyrac laughed, ‘I think we would frighten the ghosts completely out of their wits.’

‘Why are we communicating with the ghosts?’ Grantaire demanded. 'Have you become an Evadamiste, Courfeyrac?'

‘Because we finally have the last of the spells, now that this book has arrived. It is too cold outside to do anything else.’

‘I think everything is in place, when are we starting?’

‘We are waiting for Bahorel and Jehan.’

‘Where are they?’

‘At the theatre, I presume, or fighting the bourgeoisie or at the theatre fighting the bourgeoisie?’ Courfeyrac shrugged.

None of them was likely to forget the opening night of Hernani and the fight that ensued. Courfeyrac still had a purple bruise below his knee, a battle scar as he proudly claimed.  

‘What are we doing about the civil law trial we have been discussing in school and which is sure to appear as part of the examinations?’ he asked. At this moment, Bahorel and Jehan entered bringing with them a burst of cold air as the door opened.

‘Oh, don’t look at me, I don’t know which trial you mean. No longer am I in a perpetual war of words with Blondeau, I'm thankfully rid of the law school and of my nemesis.’

‘Every time law school is mentioned; I feel I have to cleanse my palate with something more appetising.’ Bahorel exclaimed as he wiped the mud off his boots rather more pointedly as if he was wiping off the law school from his person with it.

‘Like spirits.’ Grantaire spoke eyeing the large bottle of wine.

‘A séance. Everybody sit on the floor in a circle.’ Jehan said excitedly, forgetting even to take off his coat.

Combeferre sighed as he closed his books and sat down on the floor, the others also took their places.

Some of them looked hesitatingly at the skull as it was passed around with the wine but all of them took a few sips, Grantaire in his turn took a lot more.

‘The candles have gone out.’ Courfeyrac said and was met with hushing noises.

After a pause, someone exclaimed, ‘Do you see or hear ghosts, because it doesn’t seem to be working.’

There was a flurry of movement, candles were lit again and the room came back in view.

‘No wait, I think I hear something.’ Jehan frowned as he consulted the book. Outside, the wind shook the windows.

‘It’s only the wind.’

The table and windows rattled again.

‘Speak spectre, speak, O you who have cast off your mortal chains.’ Jehan commanded. There was silence and an awkward shuffling. A giggle escaped from Joly’s lips and Jehan looked at him with a frown, ‘I’ve heard tales of ghosts communicating through rattling furniture.’

Joly looked positively alarmed at the thought as he glanced around the dimly lit room, expecting the ghost to announce itself any time, he touched his nose, twice with his cane, hoping the ghost would not appear.  

‘Shouldn’t we attract the ghost with a feast?’ Grantaire asked after a few minutes of silence, ‘I know I would be attracted to a feast if I was a ghost, instead of these what’s-it-things that look unappetising.’

Courfeyrac and Bahorel meanwhile, unamused, that the ghosts may have chosen not to make their appearance, after all, had started a fencing match with the singlesticks.

Bahorel swished his cloak, ‘I shall avenge this insult, Count Udolpho, and rescue my darling Emily from your evil clutches.’

Courfeyrac laughed as he threw away the stick, Bahorel having won the contest.  

‘We should continue with this vaudeville. Joly, Bossuet and Jehan you can be my friends. We are going to make a new play out of The Mysteries of Udolpho.’

Grantaire had merely switched the skull for a different goblet and was drinking wine as he watched the farce unfold.  

‘It is a pity the séance didn’t work, Jehan.’ He said after everyone sprawled on the floor, laughing at how convoluted and silly they had made the actual plot of the novel. Count Udolpho turned into a decent fellow who renounced his titles and went on dangerous adventures with his friends.  Joly and Bossuet meanwhile were talking in fast, excited whispers that neither Grantaire nor Jehan could understand and which involved shared jokes and puns.

Jehan smiled brightly, ‘Who knows, maybe the ghosts are already here and just waiting for the right moment to converse. They may be afraid of being among people as much as people are of them. It is a pity I forgot to borrow O' Neddy’s glasses, then we would know for sure.’  

Grantaire wasn't sure if Prouvaire was in earnest or jest. He tried to ascertain that fact but failed, so he contended himself with shaking his head and grunting loudly.

The night wore down and everyone started trickling out and hurrying across the streets. They buttoned their coats against the wind; a wind that felt as if it would seep into your bones, so that you could not escape it. To cheer their spirits up, they thought of warm fires as they walked. Only Jehan stayed behind, sprawled on the sofa while Combeferre returned to his studies. He sat at the table with a copy of his textbook and medical journal while around him were jars of dissected brain, heart and lungs that he would examine minutely and make notes on. Jehan was staring ahead, lost in a deep abstraction.

‘What a terrible thing it is to discover that one is wasting away, in oblivion, dying of a broken heart, while his friend pays him no attention.’ Prouvaire spoke up after a long interval of silence, glancing towards Combeferre with an impish look in his eye.

‘Not dying surely, at least not quite so soon, by my professional opinion. You look like the pink lilies on the windowsill: all rosy cheeked. And the friend is not ignoring you but he has to take notes because as an externat he will be assisting with some of the dissection practicals tomorrow.’

‘I do not look pale and sickly enough, that is true,’ He examined himself in the mirror in Combeferre’s room, ‘You wouldn’t happen to have any knowledge of lotions or herbs to give someone a wan, greenish hue?’

‘Alas, I do not dabble often enough in the occult to have potions and curses ready on hand,’ Combeferre put his notebook down and disappeared from view until his laughter had subsided.

‘He finds this amusing, he makes a mockery out of my misery.’ Jehan perched himself on the sofa's arm, and made a wry face.  

‘On the contrary, Jehan.’ Combeferre took off his glasses and looked at his friend, ‘But I am also aware that this mood is caused by your recent misfortunes in love.’

Jehan nodded, ‘The Gods do not always smile on us mere mortals, who they sometimes use as their playthings. What it must be to rule Olympus, like Jupiter, Combeferre? Someday we shall go there.’

‘As soon as I give my internat exams in November.’

‘I can see, you have no wish to indulge in my whimsical musings. I shall go, where my company is more sought after.’

‘That is not true. I do desire your company. My rooms are pleasantly ornamented by your brightly coloured, mismatched ensemble.’

Jehan smiled as he tugged at his cravat, ‘I shall depart then, to pleasant fields and daydreams. I don’t want to disturb your studies.’

‘Stay, you’re not disturbing me. I’m always glad of your company and I’d like to finish that Walter Scott novel we are reading.’

‘I am not in the mood for it, right now.’ Jehan had not meant the words to sound brusque, but he also felt stifled in the room and longed to be somewhere else. He took his coat from the stand and like a swallow fluttered out into the streets. Combeferre nodded at his friend's words and occupied himself with his notes once more, comparing the illustrations in his textbook to the actual ravages the disease he had seen, had wrought in the organs he was examining.


	2. Chapter 2

Jehan did not remember how long he had been walking, but he found himself near Enjolras’s lodgings. He made his way upstairs and knocked, hesitating, before pushing the door open.  

Enjolras was sitting in a chair deeply absorbed in a book. Jehan surveyed his room and observed the bare surroundings once again. There was a table, a few chairs and a bookshelf bursting with books. Enjolras was simply dressed in white shirt and black trousers, which lent a sharper contrast to his blonde curls and blue eyes. From time to time, he would pick up a pen to underline or would repeat an argument aloud to himself. He noticed Prouvaire, held out his hand and shook Prouvaire's outstretched one, solemnly.  

‘Is it a fascinating book?’

‘It is very dull. It is about economics, legislations and policy matters. But the writer makes some excellent points about the taxation system.’ Enjolras smiled even as he put the book down, ‘The economic and judicial policies and the distribution of wealth among the landed gentry, the church and the peasants from Louis XVI to the present day is an interesting study.’

Jehan nodded, ‘I’ve read some of the historical biographies talking about that, when I was researching the poem about the women and their role in politics, for which I haven't found a publisher, yet.’

He sat down on the floor near Enjolras’ chair as he picked up the topic that was occupying his thoughts, once again.  

‘But I came here because I think you will understand much better than anyone, in some ways, how I feel, this sorrow, that sometimes takes a hold of me.’ Prouvaire began as he lay on the floor and gazed at the ceiling. He glanced at Enjolras’ room and its sparse surroundings, Enjolras too understood that they were passing through this world, on their way to somewhere else. An unknown destination.

‘I have lately been thinking about death, about the transient nature of life.’

Enjolras got up from his chair and sat down on the floor beside him.

‘I sometimes think about that too. This is a possibility to consider even when we are building the barricades, that the outcome may not be in our favour at all. It is not for ourselves that we nurture these ideals and fight for them, it is for the future, for the people who will come after us.’

‘Whatever the outcome, we will be there,’ Prouvaire's voice became emphatic before softening to its usual mellifluous tones, ‘I dreamt I was in the wild fields near Nimes today. I could walk among forests and live a life of a hermit. I wish I was far away somewhere, perhaps in a place that only exists in thought just so I could forget myself, forget the fragile nature of my body, forget my existence. There is a certain poetry to not-existing, not being. Oh, how I long to travel to many different places. Where would you like to be if you were not in Paris?’

He smiled at the earnestness in Jehan’s voice as he said, ‘I like Paris, it is where I can be most useful but sometimes I find myself switching to Occitan without realising and thinking of my childhood spent among the mountains.’

 _‘We were young and beautiful once/Spending hours watching butterflies flutter their bright wings/over fields and mountains that we called home/where fair nymphs dwelt and their conversations brought us endless joy/do you remember those years we spent together, my friends/we left no souvenirs of  our young lives except cherished memories/the streets do not remember the echoes of our footsteps/Was it just a dream? a happy, happy dream/if it was, then let us not wake..._ ’ Prouvaire paused here as he thought of more verses to an impromptu poem he had started composing.

After a pause, he said, ‘Perhaps we can choose to travel in our dreams. Live in several places at once.’

‘What has prompted this, Prouvaire?’

‘I want to do a thousand things and sometimes I want to do nothing. I want to be in love, but I often find it to be not quite how I imagine it. You are not in love, you are fortunate.’

Enjolras smiled thoughtfully, ‘That is not true. I love everyone. I love you and all my friends.’

‘But that is an impersonal love, a more spiritual love. It is an abstract, how can it affect you concretely?’

‘And yet it does. I would grieve and weep for my fellow man or woman, as much as I would for a lover. They are all important to me, their hardships pain me and fill me with a deep sense of sadness and only makes me resolve to work harder. I want to see them live in a much more just and fairer society, even if we have to make sacrifices for it, for the sake of progress and freedom.’

Prouvaire considered the thought for a moment turning it around in his head and nodded, ‘I am of the same opinion.’

Enjolras nodded and briefly took Prouvaire’s hand in his, before continuing, ‘Even with the best of planning, we may not know what can happen, until we try it.’  

Jehan stayed lost in thought before speaking, ‘I will go to Olympus and convince the gods to make sure that none of you ever die when we build the barricades. We will be immortal and we will be happy. You will live among your beloved mountains and grow old with a very white beard and white hair. We will meet every day and even if we are busy, we shall know that we will stay friends no matter what happens.’

‘I like that, I wish I could see myself getting old, I have never been able to imagine it.’ Enjolras’s smile was wistful.

‘Nor have I. I don’t see myself as an old man. But I would make a good ghost, I have the cloak, an Oriental dagger and a skull already. I shall walk around carrying these and scaring the Royalists and the Classicists alike.’

Enjolras laughed.

Jehan elaborated his plans on how he would get to Olympus and what he would like to ask Athena and to the goddess Bastet if he ever got to journey to Cairo. Enjolras was listening with half closed eyes and nodding off.

‘It is late, Enjolras. I should probably leave.’

‘What and leave you wandering around to find your lodgings at such a late hour? No, stay here. You can tell me more about Olympus or about those poems that you were writing for the pamphlet.’

It was pleasant though very different from his usual experiences to fall asleep beside Enjolras, Prouvaire thought. Enjolras occupied very little of his bed unlike Bahorel and was asleep soon, while Bahorel would have wanted to lie in bed for hours engaging him in conversations. He lay awake for a long time, gazing from the window at a distant star that was just visible and thinking about the poem he was composing while the outline of Enjolras’ form, so peaceful as he slept in his simple nightshirt was visible beside him. The cold winter air made him shiver as he moved near Enjolras and finally drifted off to sleep.  

Jehan woke up in the morning to find that Enjolras was already awake and writing a letter.

‘What time is it?’ Prouvaire rubbed his eyes and asked.

‘Nine o clock.’

‘It’s too early in the day.’ Jehan muttered as he rolled over and turned in the bed, rumpling the sheets further.

‘I was waiting for you to wake up, we should get breakfast, there’s a café nearby.’

Jehan got up reluctantly, smoothing his tousled blonde hair, ‘How are you so fresh and able to work at such an early hour?’ he asked with a frown on his face.  

Enjolras smiled, ‘You were reading late into the night, I could see the faint glow of the candle even as I fell asleep.’

An hour later, sitting with coffee at the table Jehan felt some semblance returning to the universe. They talked pleasantly over scrambled eggs.

‘I have been writing a few more poems for the pamphlet.’ Jehan seemed cheerful as they talked in hushed whispers, ‘And I can help with the distribution this week.’

“Feuilly has also offered to help, he’s working on the drawings for the pamphlet. They should be ready soon. And with everything happening, including the trouble in Algeria, isn't it outrageous that Polignac and Charles also talk of more restrictions for the press? I've been in touch with several journalists and printers about this already. They are all extremely worried about this. But even with everything, we may have to remain cautious. We don’t know what spies may be about still.’

‘There must have been an informer. Otherwise how could they have known about our activities. We were nearly caught storing weapons, did Courfeyrac tell you?’

Joly and Bossuet joined them before long.

‘Here’s the letter from Lyon and another from Rouen. These got delayed in the mail.’ Joly said sitting down.

Bossuet meanwhile was ordering more breakfast and helping himself to some bread.

'Nobody followed us, here.' he said answering Enjolras' unasked question, 'Courfeyrac told us about the incident with the guns. We've been very careful coming here, at any rate with  _le guignon_  following me around, I don't need spies doing that too.'  

‘Someone needs to go to Lyon to organise things there with the workers and get some gunpowder and bullet molds in the bargain. Bahorel has already contacted the man, he will be waiting for us there.’ Joly said as he watched Enjolras read the letter.  

‘I have a feeling we have volunteered for this.’ Bossuet said gaily.

‘It’d be a chance for you to meet my sister and her family; she moved to Lyon after her marriage and I hardly get an opportunity to visit her. I can't wait to see my niece and nephews again, they were very little when I visited last. Courfeyrac and Combeferre wish to come. You will accompany us as well Enjolras, I believe?’  

‘It would be one grand trip.’ Bossuet said. ‘And I would be delighted to make the acquaintance of your sister and all the little Jolys.’

After finishing their breakfast, Enjolras, Joly, Bossuet and Jehan sat around, talking.

Bossuet was recounting an anectdote about discovering a childhood friend with Republican sympathies, all because he wanted to buy a hat to replace the one he had. His own hat was not of the latest fashions, as Joly informed him, now that Joly had taken Bahorel's fashion advice to heart in all matters of clothing. It was a fine hat, though dented and punched in places, Lesgles was fond of it, but he had reluctantly agreed to buy a better one.  

'Don't you have classes today, Joly?'

‘I’m going in the afternoon. That reminds me, I must run home and get things in order, for Musichetta. She's coming back tomorrow after visiting her friends. And I need to pack my medicines for the trip to Lyon. Are you coming Bossuet?’

'You're in perfect health, Joly.'

'Yes, I checked all my vitals this morning as I had a sore throat earlier, but as my sister keeps telling me, either one or other of the children is sick these days due to the cold weather. I need to be prepared for all the possibilities.' 

They both got up to leave and Enjolras and Prouvaire heard them talking about medical facts which in their hands became anatomical puns and jokes with sexual innuendos. 

'I have to visit the Ecole Polytechnique students, they are interested in being more involved. I should leave too or else I will be very late and the students will have disappeared for their classes,’ Enjolras said, ‘I wish you very well, Prouvaire.’

‘And you.’ Jehan took out several empty parchments and started writing.


	3. Chapter 3

Dusk was setting in and Prouvaire stopped to admire the blending of the rosy red hues of the dying sun with the violet tones of the night as he walked slowly. Streetlamps were beginning to be turned on, when he rushed with his scraps of paper to the printers, afraid they would be closed by the time he reached. He had been to the Enjolras and Sons print-shop many times. He watched one of the workers line up the letters to print. As he was busy looking at the pages being printed, he espied Feuilly running in and waved to him.

‘Are you getting things printed as well.’

‘Yes, I have a few drawings and I was able to leave work early.’ Feuilly glanced at the paper in Jehan’s hand and looked slightly puzzled, ‘M.Personne?’

Jehan shrugged, ‘It seemed a good enough name. I shall change it next week. We missed you at the gathering yesterday.’

‘Gathering?’

‘We had a séance.’

Feuilly laughed, ‘I was working late, but you’re always welcome to borrow the ghosts that walk about near my room. They make such a strange noise at the same time every night. The landlord is convinced his house is haunted.’

Jehan’s eyes lit up, ‘We could have a session at your place.’

Feuilly laughed, ‘Perhaps. Today I want to finish the volume on Greece that I am reading.’

‘Ah, Greece, that beautiful land from which has sprung The Illiad and the Odyssey what I wouldn’t give to visit it.’

‘There is a passage I would be grateful if you could translate. I have yet to master the language. This book uses difficult phrases and is entirely about politics.’

Jehan nodded, ‘Of course, Feuilly. I would be happy to.’

They walked to Feuilly’s room on Rue Vergniaud, where they spent a happy hour translating and discussing Greek language and literature over dinner. Feuilly, who seemed bored at the talk about Homerian poetry, initially, listened with interest as the anecdotes became interesting. He made Prouvaire promise to bring more poetry with him, the next time he came. The talk finally wound down to Greece and its struggles and the necessity of revolts. Jehan left a very tired Feuilly rubbing his eyes and heroically looking at the book he had meant to finish reading but was too tired to do so.   

After spending some time at the theatre where Hernani was still running, Jehan was sitting in Bahorel’s lodgings alternating spending some of his time reading from Hoffmann, and the rest of it writing, as he walked about the room, scratching and adding lines. The macaroni bubbled on the stove. He was so engrossed in his work that he neither heard the water hiss and bubble on the stove nor Bahorel enter. He went first to the stove, switched it off and drained the macaroni and put it into the main pot to cook.

‘Not too much trouble today at the theatre. I did fight someone, but he was being a pompous ass to the people sitting in front of him and....I have rescued your macaroni.’ Bahorel gestured towards the stove as he stood behind Jehan, ‘What are you working on?’

‘Thank you, I was trying a new recipe for supper, but I forgot that I had something on the stove. I was reading over Hugo's old play, which was banned. Others from our circle have had their books or plays banned as well.’ He made a wry face, ‘So I thought I would write a poem for Le National about it.’ There was a twinkle in his eyes, ‘You came at the right time to hear some of it, so you can let me know what you think.’

Jehan proceeded to read out a tongue-in cheek poem, which made Bahorel laugh out loud.

‘This is perfect, Jehan.’ He grinned, ‘And now we are going on an adventure through Paris with our friendly skeleton.’

‘You managed to convince Combeferre and Joly to get him from the medical school? And I see you are dressed for the occasion. You planned this beforehand, didn’t you?’

Bahorel’s eyes crinkled, as he smiled, ‘Yes, now hurry up?’

‘What, should I wear my medieval costume as well?’

‘I thought you were already dressed for a medievalist with your terrible sleeves and ah…’ he ducked before Jehan could aim a friendly punch at him.

Here, we must allow a necessary digression on flaneurs as it applies to Jehan and Bahorel. To observe a Parisian, one needs to see him in his natural habitat, the street. There, the gamin and the flaneur are a permanent fixture. The flaneur walks around leisurely and though he may seem idle, he is always a keen student and an observer. For those reasons, he could very well be a philosopher or a poet without trying to be one, for one who observes the society in all its ugly variations cannot but help criticise it. 

Bahorel and Jehan were employing that verb to good use as they sauntered around the streets, with a well-dressed skeleton in tow. Whenever people looked at them strangely, Bahorel would remove his long feathered hat, and introduce their skeleton friend, changing his name every time for maximum scandalous effect, while Jehan giggled. They sang loud songs and laughed at everything. Bahorel managed to deface a poster advertising Racine’s play, which led to a loud conversation with a bourgeois gentleman, outside the theatre, about the merits of Hernani. They stopped at a tailor’s shop window and Bahorel eyed the dashing waistcoats on display, some of which were perhaps a bit too bright a shade of red to pass by unnoticed.

‘Should I buy this one?’ he asked Prouvaire, a bright gleam shining in his dark brown eyes.   

‘I have no intention of spending tonight in a cell with you.’ 

'I thought you would quite enjoy courting trouble.'

'I do enjoy your company quite a lot. Isn't that courting trouble enough?'   

Bahorel grinned. They ran through the streets with their skeleton friend in tow, gasping for breath when they reached Pont Au Change. They stood there watching the calm sway of the river, while carriages and omnibuses rolled past them.

 _‘For God, they say, goes through all things-/The lands, the seas, the deepest skies.'_   Jehan spoke softly, ‘How calm the water looks, how serene is nature, how beautiful and how I wish…wish to spend all my time in it.’

It was nearly midnight when they returned to their lodgings. Bahorel’s rooms were furnished splendidly according to taste that suited a young Romantic. Presently, the mantelpiece contained a medieval chalice and a skull as well as boxing gloves. The walls were adorned with a few medieval swords and several paintings, many of them by their contemporaries and friends.

Jehan sat down on the sofa, plucking on his lute a funereal air, while Bahorel plumped himself down on the rug beside him. 

‘What troubles, my young lute playing Orpheus?’

Jehan sighed, with rather more emphasis than he had intended.

‘I’ve been longing to travel, my soul feels restless, there is a melancholy that washes over my soul. I wish to go to Olympus to meet Jupiter, Venus, Aphrodite and the others.’

‘If that is all, my dear little bird.’ Bahorel smiled.

Before Jehan could say much more, he watched Bahorel turn himself into a werewolf. He motioned to Jehan to climb on his back, his rough grey fur provided firm foot and handholds. With great leaps and bounds, Bahorel, crossed nearly half of Paris and jumped over the bridge of Pont des Arts, but instead of falling in the river, as Jehan had half expected, he felt the cold rush of air. He was airborne and they were flying towards the mountains. He gazed in wonder at the night sky, the Cassiopeia constellation was shining brightly overhead. He followed a particularly large and bright star as they flew over the snow capped mountains to arrive at a mysterious island. Bahorel landed softly on his paws. Jehan jumped off Bahorel's back as he turned from a werewolf, back into his own self.

‘Do you come here often?’

Bahorel shook his head, ‘You, my dreamy flower, are not asking the right questions.’

‘You turned into a werewolf.’ Jehan shrugged but did not look surprised. 'And I'm not a flower.'

'No, I think not,' Bahorel looked at him thoughtfully, 'Though what you are, I cannot say. You defy easy descriptions.'

'I'm the universe in ecstatic motion.' Jehan said, his hazel eyes drinking in the scenery in delight, 'I am a paradox. I do not wish to be understood.'

'No.' Bahorel said as he stretched out on the ground, 'Only admired. At least, you won't find me remiss in that duty.'

The moon had bathed the whole place with a cool light, a steady splish-splash sound came from the lake, the apple trees in the distance glowed as if made of solid gold, a sweet smell of flowers enchanted the air and a lilting melody was present even in the silence of the surroundings. A warm feeling of contentment took hold of Prouvaire. Bahorel smiled at the effect it had on his friend.  

‘You seem to be of a very ancient breed of werewolves.’

‘Do you know much about them?’ Bahorel asked as they lay on the ground, with Prouvaire resting his head in Bahorel's lap.

‘I’ve read about them. They are supposed to have been nearly killed by the superstitions of people. Werewolves would originally protect people, but men hunted them and chased them away. Now there’s only a few who can read the spells and turn themselves into werewolves at will.’

‘Is this from a book?’ Bahorel looked impressed.

‘No, I just made it up. I think it would make an excellent story or an epic poem, you could be like Enkidu, a wild savage, from the Gilgamesh, except with the ability to become a werewolf.’ Jehan scrunched his nose and giggled.

‘You, my dear poet, are incorrigible.’ He pushed Jehan away in jest.

‘And you are a corruptible influence, Bahorel, I will have you know.’ Prouvaire said, as he sat up and kissed Bahorel playfully on the cheek, brushing his lips against his friend's rough stubble. 

'Are you trying to grow a beard?'

'Don't you like it?' 

'No.'

'Pity, I think it would suit me.'  

'I don't like you.'

Bahorel laughed as he gathered Prouvaire in his arms and kissed his forehead. They sat looking at the lake, which was a deep inky blue and at the horizon where the star that Prouvaire had been following, still shown brightly.  

‘Are you also immortal, my wolf friend?’

His eyes glittered in amusement, ‘Let us leave immortality to the gods. I'm content being a wild savage as you say, so that I can enjoy a lot of liberty.' 

Prouvaire considered, ‘Perhaps, I do not want immortality, as much as I thought. I was talking to Enjolras about this, yesterday, and maybe I would not mind haunting the streets with our skeleton friend.’

Bahorel laughed, ‘What, give up your plans of immortality, so soon? That is scandalous.’

‘I would be content if I could see, feel and understand nature and the world, for the most insignificant of things, may reveal nature’s hidden plans.’ Jehan smiled, ‘Just look at the flowers, how carefully each petal is formed or the stars that burn brightly overhead. Stars burn so brightly when they are about to die. _Like burnt stars that leave shadows in their wake/we left the earth more mournful with our passing..._ I think I would like that better than immortality.’

‘Yes, I much think you would prefer going to hell to meet the devil.’

‘Perhaps, then I could finish the poem I am writing on it. And yet is it vain to want to be remembered a little by your friends?’

‘I don’t think anyone will readily forget you and your lobster.’

‘Don’t tease.’

He took Jehan’s hand, ‘Fine, I’ll be serious then. Courfeyrac and I, nearly thought we lost you today, when you disappeared and ended up in the middle of a riot. We expected the worst, I was quite pleased to see you fight.’

Prouvaire smiled, ‘I am always discovering new things about myself. How can two universes exist in parallel in the same person, one capable of building, the other capable of tearing everything down? I felt that destructive quality of the earth and nature in me and it pleased me.’

Bahorel held Prouvaire’s hands and began examining them while he laughed, ‘Yes, the cat has quite a few claws.’

Prouvaire threw a handful of fallen leaves at him. Bahorel laughed as he held Jehan’s hands and kissed them. They lay beside each other, observing the sky and the clouds. Daylight was beginning to break even as they talked; the morning dew was still visible over the flowers, though only for a little while longer, as the golden rays of the sun stretched over everything in sight, dissipating the hazy fog that had gathered.    

‘We should leave.’ Bahorel smiled, ‘It is quite late and you, my dear friend, need some rest.’

They soon arrived back to their lodgings, and in the afternoon, Courfeyrac's impatient knocks on their door, found them lying close together, divested of their garments, fast asleep, the smell of opium and absinthe hanging in the air.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] The lines Prouvaire quotes: For God, they say, goes through all things-/The lands, the seas, the deepest skies are from Vergil, Georgicon IV.221-222  
> [2] Grantaire makes a reference to Napoleon's masked balls (From Hortense's memoirs, see http://valinaraii.tumblr.com/post/152388927571/the-emperor-liked-masked-balls-he-attended-one-or).  
> [3] 1830s was a time where the Parisian ball room scene was quite wild, seeing the birth of the 'valse eperdue' and 'galop infernal'. I imagine, Grantaire would have been a very enthusiastic frequenter of such balls. (Source: Petrus Borel, the lycanthrope: His life and Times by Enid Starkie)  
> [4] I made Prouvaire live in Nimes, a Protestant area in the South-East (In the Occitan-gard region), for some time before coming to Paris, because it has a medieval/Roman look and I just really like it.  
> [5] Jehan quotes 'I'm the universe in ecstatic motion' from Rumi. The full quote is, 'Stop making yourself small, you're the universe in ecstatic motion.' 
> 
> And last but not least, thank you to kitty_trio for being a wonderful beta reader.


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